The Price is Right
by Hi Pot And News
Summary: AU Harry is more money-conscious when he arrives at Gringotts with Hagrid. He's not going to let the wonder of magic take away his common sense and if he can get a good deal, he's going to take it. Point of deviation: Harry's primary school taught Home Economics.
1. Chapter 1

**General Disclaimer: **This will apply for any future chapters I might add as well. Seriously, this is the only disclaimer for this story.

If you recognize it, it's not mine. If you _don't _recognize it, it's probably still not mine. Any writing of mine will be a patchwork of things I think are cool ideas from other people, sewn together by the thread of my personal writing style. That being said, shout-out to xXxLuckyxXx whose Servitude to the Dark: The Hand that Guides Me I heavily borrowed from for the last scene.

Oh, and tell me if I should put up more chapters. I'm considering leaving it as a one-shot.

* * *

**W**hen the cart stopped at last beside a small door in the passage wall, Hagrid got out and had to lean against the wall to stop his knees from trembling. Griphook unlocked the door. Green smoke came billowing out, and as it cleared, Harry gasped. Inside were mounds of gold coins; columns of silver; heaps of little bronze Knuts.

Harry Potter liked to think of himself as a smart, capable young man; the fact that he was on the cusp on adolescence did not detract from his reckoning. Since his first lesson in primary school about life skills and money management, he took to carry pen and paper with him so he could more readily organize his goals and calculate outcomes, monetary or situational. Later on, when he had his ear harshly twisted for musing the likelihood of Dudley having a heart attack if he kept gaining weight at the rate he was, Harry also took to carry a lighter on him for the swift and unrecoverable disposal of any writings that could get him in trouble.

He was always planning what he'd do when he was old enough to not need guardians; how he'd work hard enough to earn himself a scholarship to a decent university; how he'd get a degree in Business and get a lucrative job; how he'd budget his future income and live comfortably. Never had he thought a comfortable lifestyle would come pounding at his door so early in the game and tell him it had only been hiding.

The pile of treasure in front of him made his fingers twitch toward his over-sized pocket. His mind boggled itself with exclamations and questions elbowing each other out of the way to the forefront of his mind. He was rich! How much was it in total? What was the exchange rate? It was almost scraping the ceiling! Was it _real _silver and gold? How could there be so much? If he wanted to, how long could he live on it?

"All yours," smiled Hagrid.

All Harry's — it was incredible. The Dursleys couldn't have known about this or they'd have had it from him faster than blinking. How often had they complained how much Harry cost them to keep? And all the time there had been a fortune belonging to him, buried deep under London.

Hagrid helped Harry pile some of it into a bag. Two Hagrid-sized handfuls of the gold coins and half a dozen Harry-sized fistfuls of the silver ones and the Knuts had the towering man nodding.

"The gold ones are Galleons," he explained. "Seventeen silver Sickles to a Galleon and twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle, it's easy enough. Right, that should be enough fer a couple o' terms, we'll keep the rest safe for yeh."

Harry sucked on his left cheek and gave the pile of money a speculative glance. The amount he had put in the bag was like shaking a heavy piggy bank and having one or two loose pence fall out; it was looking like the money would last him a goodly amount of time. He could swim in it, but until he knew the exact amount, he didn't want to go on a spending binge. He thought back to what he could remember or the supply list. There was a uniform and several books and those generally cost a lot; a cauldron had been mentioned and that was likely not cheap.

"Maybe some more for new clothes and extra books that look interesting too? I wouldn't want to waste time coming all the way back if it isn't enough."

"Good idea. Wouldn' want to endure tha' ride again," Hagrid agreed with a shudder.

Harry threw in a few more handfuls before pausing and giving the bag a speculative pat. He said in a bewildered tone, "This bag isn't getting any thicker or heavier!"

"'Reckon those bags have feather-light and bottomless charms on 'em. It's not everyday a body goes to his vault and yeh can't exactly go draggin' a potato sack o' coins with yeh ev'rywhere; 'tain't practical."

Harry nodded in understanding as they exited the vault. Hagrid regained his ill look as he turned to Griphook. "Vault seven hundred and thirteen now, please, and can we go more slowly?"

"One speed only," said Griphook, not even attempting to appear contrite.

One wild cart ride, a mysterious vault, and a hopeless attempt from Hagrid to be subtle later, they were teetering toward the front doors again. Before they got too far from their escort, Harry was struck with a thought and doubled back.

"Excuse me, Mr. Griphook," the little boy said, recapturing the attention of the goblin. "Is there a way to get a written accounting of my vault?"

Griphook blinked at him, as if seeing him for the first time.

"You would have to speak with your account manager for that. If you'll wait a moment, I'll check for the soonest he's available." He then directed the waiting pair toward available chairs off to the side before making his way through an innocuous door. Not five minutes later, Griphook returned with what looked like a pendant in his fist. "Grimbak will be available at four fifteen today. This portkey will bring you to the departure and arrival chamber at four ten where you will be escorted to his office. Please do not take off this pendant until your appointment time."

Harry accepted the pendant and wasted no time putting on and tucking it into his shirt.

"What do yeh need to see yeh account manager fer?" Hagrid asked, looking a bit confused. They stood from their seats and bid the goblin farewell once again.

"I'd like to know exactly have much I have so I can budget properly," Harry explained as they blinked in the sunlight outside Gringotts. "It _looks _like an awful lot but I don't know how much things generally cost here or how much I'll need to pay for school tuition. I'd like to be fully informed."

Hagrid grunted his understanding before leading them down the steps again.

* * *

Harry didn't know where to run next now that he had a bag full of money. He didn't have to know how many Galleons there were to a pound to know that he was holding more money than he'd had in his whole life — more money than even Dudley had ever had. Maybe it could sustain him until he was old enough to get a job and he might not have to go back to the Dursleys!

Hagrid had escorted him first to a luggage store where Harry had talked the giant man into letting him get a resizable trunk instead of a standard one; further wheedling had won him a password-activated lock as well. From that point on, it was Harry having his run of the shops; getting discounts on his books for buying the complete set of Standard Book of Spells and other book series, a bottomless school satchel thrown in as a bonus; shaving off Sickles from his potion ingredients by purchasing them separately instead of getting the pre-prepared kit; haggling for all he could squeeze at a second-hand shop for gently used scales, phials, a telescope, and a cauldron.

When there were only the uniform and wand left to buy, Hagrid was looking a bit taxed.

"Right then, next is yer uniform," said Hagrid, nodding toward Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. "Listen, Harry, would yeh mind if I slipped off fer a pick-me-up in the Leaky Cauldron? I've haven't been feelin' like myself since the cart ride."

He did still look a bit sick, so Harry entered Madam Malkin's shop alone, feeling giddy but satisfied.

The robe shop housed rows upon rows of various clothing, many of which Harry wouldn't have been surprised seeing at a Halloween costume party; it seemed the Muggles got at least one thing right. He ambled his way over to a rack of button up shirts that looked like they came out of the Regency or Victorian era and looked for his size. Harry decided to himself that the styles really did look rather nice and if it wasn't for the trailing sleeves and complete lack of synthetic fabrics or modern cuts, it was like any other clothing store in the world.

"Can I help you?" asked a blonde store clerk while Harry was peering about with his arms full of button-ups and various trousers, looking for a uniform section. She smile good-naturedly when he started and whirled.

He shifted his load and grinned sheepishly. "I'm here for school clothes."

"Standard black robes and pointed hat, right?" She took the clothes from him and draped them over the front counter. Harry checked his list and nodded.

"Right. They're over here," she said, guiding him over to a rack closer to the back of the store. She gave the scruffy clothes he was wearing a calculating look. "Maybe a set with some room to grow so you won't have to worry about them getting too short by the end of the year. Do you know your size?"

"No, I've always worn my cousin's hand-me-downs 'til now and they've never really fit."

"Hmm, well, we'll just throw them on top of what you have on and see how they look," she declared, reaching for a robe directly in front of her.

Pulling the garment over his head and letting it fall to him ankles, Harry couldn't help but think it felt like he was wearing a cross between a monk's cowl and bath-robe. He kept this thought to himself as the salesgirl circled around him with a considering look.

"It looks okay . . ." she said slowly. "It'll probably look better later when you don't have that bulky shirt on underneath." She nodded decisively and turned back to the clothing rack. "You need three, right?"

"That's right."

She hummed and made for the hat display next to the rack. She looked at him from over her shoulder and asked, "What school did you say you were going to?"

"Hogwarts," Harry replied absently, his attention being drawn away by the sound of loud talking further back in the store.

This reply made the salesgirl pause and caused he eyes to widen. "Hogwarts did you say?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Oh, dear me! A little prince! Merlin, I should have asked straight off; Hogwarts has a separate uniform on top of the standard school robes. Let's get you out of those and have you fitted," she babbled, pulling the black robes back over Harry's head and and leading him to a footstool farther in the back, where there were two other boys already being fitted.

As his store clerk began measuring him, Harry discreetly glanced over the other two boys. One was a pointy faced blonde that looked about Harry's age; he appeared the younger of the two and had a magnificent sneer on his face, directed at his companion. The other boy had dark brown hair and a snub nose; he looked about his mid teens and had affected a bored look the moment Harry had entered his sight.

Harry gave them a nod in acknowledgement but otherwise ignored them.

The blonde boy was in the middle of a vehement tirade. "Listen here, Pucey! I'll not let you—"

"Enough of this. I couldn't care less about how you plan to join the Quidditch team next year. I really don't understand why you insist on telling me about it. I'm hardly captain of the team, now am I?"

Harry made eye contact with his store clerk as the blonde puffed up with indignation. She gave him a small smirk in understanding and measured more quickly. The other seamstresses attending to the two arguing boys looked rather uneasy that there was an argument going on above their heads.

The blonde boy looked ready to stomp his foot in frustration. He turned his nose at at the other boy and very obviously turned away from him, dismissing him haughtily. His eyes landed on Harry and he straightened.

"Hello," he said, making Harry shift awkwardly at the not so welcomed attention. "Hogwarts, too?"

"Yes," said Harry, his eyes flickering over to the older, dark haired boy who seemed amused that the blonde was trying to ignore him now.

"My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street looking at wands," said the boy. He had a bored, drawling voice. "Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow."

Harry was strongly reminded of Dudley.

"Have you got your own broom?" the boy went on.

"No," said Harry.

"Play Quidditch at all?"

"No," Harry said again, wondering what on earth Quidditch could be and why this boy seemed to enthralled with it that he was bothering another person about it when his first conversation partner seemed to find it tedious.

"I do — Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my House, and I must say, I agree. Know what House you'll be in yet?"

"No," said Harry slowly. Couldn't he tell Harry was not at all interested?

"Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been — imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"

"Mmm," Harry replied, wishing the blonde would take a hint. Harry glanced over that the older boy again, giving him a discreet beseeching look; he only looked more amused and gave Harry a cheery wink.

"I say, look at that man!" said the boy suddenly, nodding toward the front window. Hagrid was standing there, grinning at Harry and pointing at two large ice creams to show he couldn't come in.

"That's Hagrid," said Harry, pleased to have something worthwhile to say instead of feeling uncomfortable. "He works at Hogwarts."

"Oh," said the boy, "I've heard of him. He's a sort of servant, isn't he?"

"He's the gamekeeper," said Harry. He was liking the boy less and less every second.

"Yes, exactly. I heard he's a sort of savage — lives in a hut on the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire to his bed."

"Where did you hear that?" Harry asked. "Hagrid's brilliant; he's shown me around the Alley all day and has really nice about it."

"Really?" said the boy, with a slight sneer. "Why is he with you? Where are your parents?"

"They're dead," said Harry shortly. This made the boy stop short of his answering retort, chagrined. He tried to maintain his superior countenance but his contrition was apparent.

"Sorry," he said awkwardly, looking away. He cast about for a new topic of conversation before suddenly blurting, "They were_ our_ kind, weren't they?"

"Our _kind?_" Harry echoed incredulously. What did that even mean? Was this boy racist on top of being insufferable? Harry was starting to get really irritated. "They were both English, and had white skin, if that's what you meant; if you meant religion, I wouldn't know since they died when I was a baby. In any case, I don't think any of that matters as long as they were decent people who never tried to hurt anyone else."

"Don't be silly," the blonde said impatiently. "That's not what I meant at all."

"What else could you have meant?" Harry shot back, letting his eyebrows furrow a bit in irritation.

"Of course, I meant—"

"Merlin, Malfoy!" The older boy — Pucey — cut in with exasperation. "You just don't know when to stop, do you?"

The newly dubbed Malfoy turned up his nose once more. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Alright, young sir," Harry's store clerk cut in, returning from where she had gone to prepare uniforms in Harry's size. The other seamstresses gave almost audible sighs of relief from where they were still pinning the robes, trying their best to be invisible. "That's you done. Will you follow me to the front so I can ring up your purchases?"

Harry conceded, hopping down from the stool, not at all sorry for having an excuse to stop talking to the other boy. He grasped at his last thread of civility and nodded stiffly at the other boys. "I'll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose."

* * *

Harry sucked in a shuddering breath and leaned back in the unyielding, high-back chair. He was seated in the office of Grimbak, his clever-faced account manager, going over far more than just his trust account like he had been expecting. He stared uncomprehendingly at the portfolio of parchment listing his vaults, properties, stock-holdings, and entitlements from various accounts before snatching the file up and flipping through the pages once more.

"This can't be real," Harry mumbled under his breath. He could accept having Potter vaults — though _vaults, _as in plural, was already more than he was expecting — he could even see himself with his mother's personal vault, but how was he connected to this Black family, and what in the world was a collections account?

He shuffled back to the cover page and slowly re-read the summary of his holdings.

**Harry James Potter**

**Evans - Heir by Blood**

_**Vaults:** #529 (14,437 Galleons)_

**Potter - Heir by Blood**

_**Vaults:** #132 (58,032,268 Galleons, 13 Sickles, 23 Knuts and assorted items)/ #686 (-80,063 Galleons)/ #687 (45,100 Galleons, 9 Sickles, 14 Knuts)_

_**Properties: **Potter Manor. England/ Vacation home. Italy/ Nature's Navel. Scotland/ #4 Privet Drive. England_

_**Investments:** 42% Daily Prophet stocks/ 25% Magical Menagerie stocks/ 38% Nautilus' Newts stocks_

_**Entitlements: **Wizengamot Seat, 14 votes/ Earldom of Hautmont_

**Black - Heir by Name and Magic**

**Riddle - Heir by Magic**

**Collections Account**

_**Vaults:** #782, #985, #639 (Total 96,284 Galleons and assorted items)_

It still made no sense. Seeing Harry's befuddled look, Grimbak took the liberty to explain. "Starting with the basics," he began, "there are three ways to inherit accounts. The first is by blood, which means through the family." — here pointed a clawed finger to Evans and traced down to Potter — "You are are the only child of the late Lily Potter whose maiden name was Evans and you are a Potter by birthright.

"The second way is if you are formally named as an heir, which is what happened with the Black Estate and the Collections account."

Harry blinked slowly in thought then nodded in understanding. His brow creased mildly. "And what about magic? It has that here, next to Black and Riddle."

"Yes, that's rather curious," Grimbak replied, tapping a claw against his cheek thoughtfully. "The most recent of the Potter family was known to have ties to the Blacks; I believe your grandmother was born a Black. That you are named heir implies that whoever is before you in the line of succession was either childless at the time and still is or has decided to not have children at all. A magical heir is created when an adult shares his magic with a child whose core is still developing; that you are the Black heir by name _and _magic implies that whoever is before in the line of succession was close enough with your parents that they were allowed to perform an adoption ritual on you. Perhaps a godparent."

A godparent? Harry stiffened at the thought. He wasn't sure exactly what a godparent was supposed to do but wasn't that someone who was supposed to take care of him if his parents couldn't? If he had a godparent, did that mean he didn't have to have his relatives as his guardians? Harry asked this out loud.

Grimbak shuffled through a separate stack of parchment and pulled out a faded looking sheet. "It says here that your godfather, Sirius Black, is currently incarcerated in Azkaban."

"Azkaban?"

"A wizard's prison, Mr. Potter."

Harry internally deflated. That was just his luck. It was almost ironic. The Dursley's were forever going on about how Harry's parents were drunken wastrels; even though he now knew it wasn't true, he felt as if he should have known that the person his parents chose to take care of him was in jail.

"What did he. . . ? Never mind, I don't want to know." Harry straightened and leaned over the parchment once more. He tapped at the edge. "And this Riddle person?"

The goblin flipped through the pages again, then shook his head. "No previous business carried out with that name, nor does it sound familiar. I don't believe I've ever heard it in context with the Potters. I would have assumed it to be another godparent but your godmother is listed as Alice Longbottom. She is, unfortunately," Grimbak continued, anticipating Harry's question, "currently in the care of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, in the Janus Thickey Ward for patients with minds declared irreparably affected."

Harry huffed a near silent sigh. Good thing he didn't really expect much anyway He waved his hand vaguely, signalling that he wanted to move on.

"The next thing you should notice are the inheritable assets, the properties and investments. At the moment, you only have access to the Evans and Potter properties since you are the last living descendant. The other properties are off limits to you until the current Head either gives you access or dies. This is why their holdings are not listed."

Harry nodded in understanding. He decided not to worry over the off limits accounts since he seemed to be decently well-off enough with what was already available to him.

"Entitlements," Grimbak carried on, "are the privileges granted by the Crown to the Noble Families—"

"Wait, Harry cut in, incredulity creeping into his voice. "'By the Crown'? 'Noble Families'? You're making it sound like my parents were part of the aristocracy or something!"

"That's exactly what I mean, Mr. Potter; you would not have entitlements otherwise. Wizarding Britain does not currently have an actual Royal family but those of title and land before the enforcement of the International Statute of Secrecy retained their status, since it was through their collective power that the British Ministry of Magic was originally formed."

He peered over the top of his spectacles at the astounded young wizard before him. "If I may move on?"

Harry nodded mutely.

"As I was saying, Entitlements are privileges, such as voting rights, granted to the Head of a Family. It's not a common occurrence but since you are the last of your line, you are automatically the Head of your Family. However, you are not obligated to attend to your civic duties of participating in the Wizengamot until you formally claim your lordship, and by Family Law, you are not able to do that until your sixteenth birthday.

"I do, however, recommend seeing to your land as soon as possible. Towns and villages are generally self-sufficient in this day and age, but the county of Hautmont does not have a steward on record and it has been over ten years since the Potter family has sent anyone to see to it's people. They tend pay their taxes more willingly when their leaders show active interest in them."

Questions buzzed through Harry's mind, all of equalling precedence that he wasn't sure what to ask first. Girding himself up, he latched onto the question that's been the back of his mind since the beginning of the meeting. "Why are there three Potter vaults? The last one is the one I was taken to earlier, and I supposed one of them is the Family vault but why is there another?"

"Yes, the vault system can become complicated," Grimbak answered. "The first vault is as you said, the Family vault. The first vault listed on any account will always be the family vault in cases like this. The following vaults are usually Trust and Retainer vaults listed in order of creation. In this case, your Family vault is followed immediately by your father's Retainer vault. When a minor turns fifteen the status of his vault goes from Trust to Retainer. In the case of a minor becoming a Lord, the Retainer vault will be absorbed into the main vault. The Lord, in this case, _you, _will then have full control of all the holdings."

"So #686 was my dad's Retainer vault. Why wasn't it absorbed into the Family vault when he was Lord Potter?"

"That is thanks to your grandfather," Grimbak murmured, a bit of fang showing. He shuffled the papers once more. "Charlus Potter was a financial genuis, a trait that unfortunately was not shared with his son. Because of his lack of money-sense and. . . immaturity, your father was regulated to an account completely separate from the rest of the family. Any earnings or debts on the account was to be solely on James. He was later formally skipped over in the line of succession when your grandfather named you his heir when you were born."

"Isn't that a bit," Harry hesitated, "drastic?"

"It may certainly seem so but it was a good thing Charlus had the foresight to nip it in the bud, as they say. Especially once your father graduated. Under the misguidance of. . . shall we say, over-zealous_ leadership,_" — here he snarled — "the late Mr. Potter donated his entire, and not insignificant, wealth to fight in the war. It's unkind to speak ill of the dead, especially when I've heard such good things about him, but by the year of his death, he had amounted a debt of nearly one hundred thousand Galleons, as you can see here by the minus symbol before the amount. Only through his sense of honour was your mother's account not given up as well. That, and I suppose her adamant command when they went into hiding that anything left in her vault be placed aside for you. Nothing I said changed you father's mind when he gave away that money."

A puddle of cold pooled in his gut. Harry wasn't certain how to feel. On the one hand, he desperately wanted to think well of his father, especially after learning how highly Hagrid thought of him; he had concrete reason to believe his parents were far better than the lies he had been fed. On the other hand, why hadn't his father been more concerned over how Harry would live if they died? He was shocked at how foolish his father now sounded and felt grateful to his grandfather; the way things were going, it sounded like Harry wouldn't have anything to inherit if things had been up to his father.

A coil of guilt squeezed at the coldness inside him. Wasn't that a callous way to think? Were riches in front of him already making him greedy? That money had been used in the hopes that Harry himself wouldn't have to live through war. Sure, it was a large amount, and it certainly sounded thoughtless, but it had gone with good intentions. There were so many other options Harry could think of off the top of his head that his parents could have done — including just leaving England altogether, especially when his mother was found pregnant — but the gist of it was, they had been fighting for him. He wouldn't have done the same but he should appreciate that they were willing to spend so much on his behalf.

Since when did he start thinking that millions of pounds and four different properties — completely ignoring the other accounts — were not enough? Harry then vowed to himself that he would always remember the difference between frugality and stinginess.

Easing away from the awkward topic, Harry said, "I want to pay off the debt. Is that possible, sir?"

"There's no need," Grimbak assured him. "That debt has been filed as not collectable. Since it was a personal account, and the fact that your grandfather ensured that any debt of your father had no connection to the Potter family, the debt essentially died with him. #686 is just an empty vault that hasn't been cleared for new use yet."

"That he was in debt means that he used money that wasn't his. That money had to come from somewhere — some_one _— and I don't like the idea of anyone being out almost a hundred thousand Galleons just because the person that owes it is out of the picture. I want to pay it if only for my own peace of mind."_  
_

"Very well." Grimbak sounded hesitant as if he was not sure what to make of Harry. He finally decided on respect. Clearly the son was not of the same mindset as the father. "I will file the transaction after this meeting and it will be taken from the Family vault."

"Great," Harry said, allowing a ghost of a smile. "Now, what is a Collections account? That doesn't sound like something that everyone has."

This earned him fangs bared in amusement. "Gringotts opens a special account for those that receive a significant amount of donations. It's common practice for many organizations, especially those that rely on charity. St. Mungo's, for instance, has one and anyone who wants to donate money or entire vaults simply file for a transfer to the Collections account."

"So. . . Why do _I_ have one?"

This caused Grimbak to look at him almost fondly. "Are you familiar with your status as the Boy Who Lived, a highly celebrated hero?"

"Hagrid mentioned a bit about people being grateful to me since I didn't die when that evil wizard person tried to kill me."

"Indeed, Mr. Potter. A veritable waterfall of gifts pours in from the gratitude. I believe that's where you got so many Wizengmot votes since I recall your grandfather having only nine. #782 has been regularly receiving attention on the thirty-first of July, your birthday I believe. Apparently, some were so thankful, they've signed over entire vaults to you. This is not accounting for the little gifts, of course. The ones sent directly to you. Things sent by owl do not get accounted for."

"I've never gotten owls on my birthday," Harry muttered in confusion. "I didn't even know I was a wizard until I got my Hogwarts' letter. You mean to tell me people have been sending me things for years?" At the goblin's confirmation, Harry became distressed. "All this time. . . they must think I'm horribly rude and spoiled! Is there a way I could get a list of the people who've sent me gifts? I want to thank them properly and explain that I didn't mean to ignore them!"

Grimbak looked unsettled and wary at discovering Harry's ignorance. "I can get you a list of the names of the formal transactions, if you'd like. I regret to say anonymous giftings will be unrecoverable."

"At least that's something. Maybe I can put an ad in the newspaper to thank them and explain that I haven't gotten anything by owl for some strange reason."

"Perhaps you can also add that if they wish to send you things in the future, a transaction at Gringotts has proven to be affective."

"I'll do that." Harry shook his head. This would require further thought at a later date. He resolved to put away the mystery for now.

Harry then threw himself into the budgeting of his Trust vault. Grimbak informed him that the vault would be topped off at fifty thousands — the standard amount for minor of a Noble Family —at the end of every year until he turned came of age or claimed his lordship, whichever came first. Looking at the total before him, Harry was glad that he wouldn't have to be as economical with his money as he had secretly feared. He was, however concerned over the amount missing from the total; he was sure he hadn't stuffed that much into his pouch earlier.

Pulling out a solar powered calculator — that which had intrigued his account manager since such a thing was unheard of in the magical world — Harry added up the sums. He had spent sixty-six Galleons at the clothing store and one hundred fifty-seven on books and supplies. Add to that the two thousand, five hundred eighty Galleons for tuition and he should forty-seven thousand, one hundred ninety-seven Galleons left. That mean he was missing two thousand ninety seven Galleons.

Harry paused in his confusion. He didn't spend everything he had in his bag; he was sure he still had a good amount left in there. Letting Grimbak work his magic, they were informed that the money pouch currently contained eight hundred ninety-seven Galleons. This left one thousand two hundred Galleons in places unknown.

Grimbak saw his distressed mien and flipped through the portfolio again, searching for what they could have missed. "Ah, here it is."

Harry perked a bit at that.

"It says here that ten Galleons have been regularly converted into muggle money and transferred to the account of one Petunia Dursley each month to supplement your up-keep. The amount was decided on based on the income the Dursley family has each year. It was decided that the converted fifty pounds per month would be sufficient."

The Dursleys were getting paid to take care of him. Harry felt like crying, screaming, and throwing something, and not necessarily in that order. He literally didn't cost them any of their own money to keep. How many times had he been told that he cost them more money than they could afford and lived only because of their charity? Doing the math in his head, it was obvious that they received plenty and more than they needed to keep him fed and clothed. Yet he wore Dudley's cast-offs and was fed grudgingly. A glance at the cover page reminded him that he even owned the house they lived in.

Their lies were building up. This would not stand.

"Are any of the properties fit to live in?" Harry asked abruptly, a plan drawing itself up. He was not normally vindictive but he was willing to make an exception just this once.

"I believe Potter Manor and the vacation house in Italy have been kept habitable though the vacation house is currently being rented."

"So I could, theoretically, move in any time I wanted?"

"Yes, Mr. Potter."

"Let's say I find myself in a situation where my relatives and I want nothing more to do with each other or they just suddenly die or something. Would I be assigned new guardians by whoever it is that's in charge of that sort of thing or would I be essentially on my own?"

Grimbak took in the young wizard before him. He found himself appreciating the level-headedness and cleverness being displayed. From what he'd been gleaning from their conversation so far, it appeared that he'd been kept ignorant and not well cared for. He knew the humans didn't like their young to be unattended, especially the ones still in childhood, but he couldn't help but think the one before him would be better off on his own. At the very least in comparison to what his current other option was.

"The Ministry," Grimbak began carefully. "Has a department dedicated to the care of wizarding children. I believe the muggle equivalent is known as Child Services. They don't like minors without adult supervision. However, we both know that if they are never informed, certain children slip through the cracks. I believe that if you are subtle when out in public or at school, you could easily take up residence at any of your properties with no one the wiser. That is, if your current guardians do not kick up a fuss if you don't return to their home."

Harry snorted. "They're more likely to celebrate among themselves and not question it for fear of jinxing it."

"If that's so, I see no reason why you can't move into Potter Manor at once."

"Well, at least that's good news." Harry leaned back in his chair and flexed his leg muscles under the desk. This entire meeting was far more that he had been expecting, both in good news and bad though the good did outweigh the bad. "So what next?"

"Now we go to you Family vault to get your heir ring. That way you'll be free to travel through your properties unhindered. Though you're still only heir, you're also Head of House so you'll be able to dabble with the wards." Grimback affect a nonchalant look. "Perhaps you could tighten security to keep away undesirable busy-bodies."

Harry grinned as they stood from their chairs and made for the door. A thought struck him as they passed the chamber his portkey had delivered him to. "You mentioned earlier that my dad had gave donated all his money because of bad leadership. Who told him to give away all his money?"

Grimbak glanced at him as they climbed into the cart, as if sizing him up.

"Albus Dumbledore."


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: **Updates will be fairly irregular since I have several other stories on the back-burner, not ready to be seen, that also take up time to write. That, and I'm a tentative member of Procrastinator's Anonymous.

* * *

**H**arry Potter was cosily curled up and tucked away in the empty compartment he had chosen by merit of being the farthest from the doors, meaning least likely to be disturbed by other passengers. He congratulated himself on being rather clever to come early enough to have his pick of the compartments and being imaginative enough to discover that the overhead storage area was actually quite sturdy — suspiciously sturdy, really; it had to have been magically re-enforced — and spacious enough to fit him easily thrice over width-wise and twice over length-wise; there was plenty of space left over for anyone else's carry-on. With his luggage sitting in front of him, blocking the edge, a snuggly comforter around him, and a surprisingly comfortable pillow under his head, Harry felt as content as a hedonistic cat.

He allowed himself the private amusement of purring softly and let his thoughts drift.

Quite honestly, he felt as if this was his first time to properly relax in weeks. His days had been filled with things he never thought he'd have to deal with; a ridiculous amount of paperwork; devouring his _magical_ school books; negotiating with companies that had used his name without permission (through proxy, of course; he had no experience on how to handle himself with fast-talkers); _re-reading_ his school books; interrogating the _talking portraits_ of his ancestors; work crews rushing about to check the stability of the properties and wards; getting to know his house-elves; work crews rushing about to _fix _the properties and wards; interviewing stewards so he wouldn't have to deal with all the forest of paperwork while at school; _taking notes_ on his school books; and just more busy-work that he was far too zoned-out of to remember. He barely had time to wonder to himself if it was all just an elaborate dream.

His final month of summer had taken off at a dizzying pace the moment he had put on his heir ring at Gringotts. An empty picture frame near where the ring was being kept had suddenly been filled by a gaping woman with Harry's messy hair. Her exclamation of welcome was violently doubled by the sudden appearance of a hysterical house-elf that threw itself as his feet and sobbed tearfully into his knee. Of course, at the time, he had no idea what a house-elf was or that they existed and thus reacted with the appropriate amount of shock.

He screamed, as Dudley would have said, like a little bitch.

His scream had terrified the already overwhelmed house servant, resulting in an impromptu shrieking contest between them. It was only by Grimbak's interference that they were both calmed down without further incident and the lady in the portrait, the late Dorea Potter, directed the elf, Mimzy, to take Harry home and see to his every comfort. It was only after he had dug himself out of the dog-pile of bodies at the bottom of a spiralling staircase did he fully comprehend that he was no longer at the bank.

Mimzy, it turned out, was only one of several house-elves hysterically happy that their master had finally come home. He felt completely loved and cherished in a way that was confusing and only slightly unsettling.

Mimzy had taken to following Harry almost everywhere he went, even away from the manor for meetings, with only common decency holding him back from trotting after Harry into the bathroom. It puzzled Harry at first but he eventually just went with the flow, the little house-elf too enthusiastic and doe-eye'dly cute to deny. It was later discovered that Mimzy had declared himself Harry's personal elf back when Harry was still a baby. Mimzy was four when Harry was born and he had been utterly enthralled by his young master since then. It had taken him giving up the right to clean the Entrance Hall and sitting room to get the other elves to stop pouting about Mimzy getting all the fun duties.

That was a point of confusion for Harry; they considered chores fun? Mimzy had eagerly explained when asked.

"House-elveses are for takin' care of masters and masters' house! We made just for that! First, house gets built, then master lives in house and gives house his magic. Longer master lives in house, the more magic house eats up, like baby catty-pillar. Then when house eats up 'nough magic, it wakes ups and loves master for being kind and feedings it. House loves master _soooo_ much, it makes house-elveses to takes cares of master. Then the elveses stay with master's family because we's good elves!"

"Your species was created solely to serve wizards? And you're okay with that? Don't you want to be free to do what you want?" Harry was sceptical of this. He wasn't sure if this was some kind of fanciful fairytale House-elves told their children to keep them well-behaved or actually had some truth in it. They sounded like slaves and Harry was not comfortable having slaves.

Mimzy had denied wanting to be set free vehemently, his bat-like ear quivering in distress. "Mimzy don't wants to be away from young Master any more than he wants to lose his leg! Mimzy is a good elf!"

Harry finally decided that even if he didn't understand how they could be so happy with their lot in life, they still obviously _were _happy, and if they were happy tending to him and the chores, what sense did it make to argue with them about it? They had obviously built a culture around their servitude and had no problems with it. He suspected his initial problem with house-elves was how much they reminded him of himself but without the cheery attitude. Unpaid labour in general made him unhappy and seeing the elves at work reminded him that he had justice to extract.

Harry had calculated the average price a child cost each month, taking in food, clothes, water, and school fees into account, calculated how much he himself had cost each month, and took into consideration the amount of work and services he provided as well to determine exactly how much of a 'financial burden' he had been. With everything account for, Harry had cost them _negative _one hundred and ten pounds each month; they didn't use the stipends given to them to provide anything for him and he had saved them quite a bit of money as their unpaid chef, maid, butler, gardener, fix-it man, plumber, and cleaning-person.

He had every intention of getting compensated in full.

Harry let a wicked grin crawl onto his face and twisted himself until he was laying on his back. Satisfaction made him stir from his previous doze but his thoughts were still free-form. He felt like an eagle locked onto it's prey. Tasty, juicy, prey. Perhaps he should get more blankets and cushions out and make himself a fort. Or a cocoon. Or a nest.

A nest was good; eagles didn't have forts or cocoons. A nest where he could plan further juicy justice.

Harry couldn't do anything too awful to the Dursleys; he couldn't take them to court for the mishandling of his money or child neglect, or send in a team of goblins to repossess the house, since that would bring attention to the fact that he no longer lived there, but he could definitely make their lives more difficult. Jacking up the price of their house payments and sending an invisible house-elf to collect the first month's payment of a hundred and ten pounds from Petunia's purse to start was subtle but satisfying.

Satisfying and juicy.

Mmmmm, juicy.

It was to this victorious and vaguely odd thought that he finally drifted off.

* * *

Harry was rudely pulled out of his nap by the sound of a sharp voice coming from the direction of his feet.

" —lutely impossible to put up with him. He stuck his nose up at me again and told me that I should "speak more respectfully in the presence of— Sweet Merlin!" The voice seemed to shift to the other side of the compartment.

"What are you on about now?" a grumpy, masculine voice grumbled. More voices echoed his sentiment.

"I knew you were into some weird shit, Flint," the first voice retorted, growing closer once more. "but hiding a body with your luggage is strange even for you!"

"What?" the other voices said incredulously in concert just as a hand tugged at Harry's left foot.

Harry made a sound of dislike and pulled his foot away. He curled his legs up into his body and pushed aside his trunk to get a look at what was going on. There, in his previously, delightfully empty compartment, were four other boys staring at him with a mixture of shock and disbelief. One of them, the one that had pulled on his foot, was the brown-haired older boy from the robe shop, his hand hovering in air as if about to make another grab at Harry's legs.

"Do you often wake a person by grabbing at their foot and shouting about dead bodies?" Harry asked, covering his mouth to block out a yawn. This seemed to snap the older boys out of their stupor and had them jumping to their feet, shouting again. Robe shop boy — Pucey, his name was Pucey — jumped back and knocked into a sandy-haired boy with a pert nose.

"Huh—how—why—WHAT ARE YOU DOING UP THERE?" a gangly, black-haired boy cried, pointing a finger at him.

"I _was_ taking a bit of a nap until someone decided to play wake the dead. What does it look like I'm doing? Writing an essay?" Harry shifted his trunk further out of his way and sat up, tucking his leg under him like it was story-time. He let his comforter fall into his lap and made to untangle his hair a bit. He peered down at his gaping fellow compartment passengers sleepily. Really, this overhead storage was just like an extra set of seats for short people that loved heights. If more people used them like he now did, the owners of the train could earn almost twice the amount of money on passengers per journey.

"Were you there the entire time?" the yet to be named young man continued, aghast, his bright blue eyes taking in the smaller boy as if Harry was some hitherto unknown parasitic creature that had just burrowed out of his skin and crawled away.

"Depends on what you mean by that," Harry replied, lazily scratching his cheek. "If you mean if I'm somehow a naturally occurring part of the compartment that has been on this train since it was first made, no. If you mean if I've been in this compartment for the whole of your conversation so far, probably, but since I was asleep, I was hardly eavesdropping. If you're asking if I had sneaked in when you weren't looking, no, since there's only one door and and the only other way in is through the window; you'd have to be pretty thick to miss me if I _did _try to sneak in through _either_ entrance. If you meant that as a statement of general outrage that I'm in you're compartment without your permission, I've been here since an hour before eleven and the train was still empty; if anything, that means _you _are in _my _compartment without permission. I should charge you entrance fees."

There was a pause. The black-haired boy then said, "You pretty much summed up what I meant, what I didn't mean, what I meant subconsciously, and what didn't occur to me to mean until you said it."

"I hope not exactly in that order or I'd recommend that someone had you looked at."

"Alright, alright, stop fucking with Montague's head," growled the owner of the aforementioned grumpy, masculine voice, an uncommonly tall young man who looked like he ate boulders for breakfast and quaffed on pints of orphan tears to wash it down. He wouldn't have looked out of place in a gladiator battle with a doubled-bladed battle axe in his hands. Someone earlier had called him Flint. How appropriate. "Who are you and why the hell are you up there?"

"'m Harry," Harry said, scooting closer to the edge of the overhead storage to let his legs dangle off. He kicked his feet idly. "I got here early and got bored by myself. I tend to climb to the highest possible spot when I get bored; I scared the crap out of my house-elves once when they found me dangling from the chandelier. Turns out this thing is way stronger than you'd think and it really is rather cosy. I was about to make myself a nest when I fell asleep."

There was an awkward silence in which none of the other boys knew what to say in response to that outlandish statement and Harry dug in his satchel for his glasses. Slipping them onto his face, he wondered if he should have pretended that he _was _a dead body just to save himself the trouble of making conversation.

"Hey, you're that kid from Madam Malkin's," said Pucey, realization brightening his face, his previously flinty countenance softening. "The one that shut Malfoy up right proper."

"Only for his mouth to keep running since his brain hadn't caught up just yet," Harry added.

"It's no matter," Pucey waved off, sitting back down. "The look on his face when he realized he made an idiot of himself was a thing of beauty."

"All it took was telling him my parents were dead," Harry dead-panned, making Pucey realize he was being insensitive as well. The green eyed boy looked expectantly at the others. "I'm still new to this 'being a part of civilized society and having manners' thing — I still occasionally grunt and let my knuckles drag on the ground — but isn't this past the point that I'm supposed to be introduced to everyone? I've already said _my _name; there's even a mutual acquaintance here to do the introducing."

"Ah, right!" Pucey straightened and looked a bit chagrined at having to be reminded about his manners by a younger boy. "Harry, was it? I'm Adrian Pucey. Pleasure to see you again. Here next to me," —he waved a hand at Flint — "is Marcus Flint. He was mentioned in passing when Malfoy and I were talking before, he's Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team. This," — he put his hand on the shoulder of the sandy-haired boy with the snub nose — "is Cassius Warrington, the strong a silent type; you'll get more conversation out of a rock. He's on the quidditch team as well, and a cousin of mine. And finally we have Hugh Montague; not the sharpest thorn on the thistle but at least he's pretty."

"Bugger off, Pucey," Montague grumbled, leaning against the door and glaring at the other boy.

"Pleasure to meet you," Harry said, letting a suspiciously bright and sweet smile spread across his face. His eyes widen in enthusiasm; the mention of quidditch in the introductions reminded Harry of a question he'd been eager to have answered. "So, you're all pretty familiar with quidditch right? It wasn't very big where I'm from so I was wondering: Beaters, they use bats, right? Really hard bats that could do some serious damage by themselves? And they use those bats to hit cannon-ball-like projectiles at the other players; projectiles that could severely maim and injure the others as well. And they're encouraged to do that?"

Warrington, the only Beater in the room, observed the almost maniacal gleam of interest in the younger boy's eyes. Cautiously, he nodded.

"Is there room on the team for another Beater?"

* * *

Harry was perched precariously on the top of a cushioned booth bench in the dining carriage of the train. He had left the compartment with the older boys since his long nap had made him want to stretch his legs and his stomach was demanding attention. Across the table from him was a boy with light brown hair named Justin Finch-Fletchley, and next to him, joining him on his precarious perch, was a black boy with cropped hair, named Dean Thomas. The three boys munched on their excitingly magical candies and felt thankful for not being so out of place any longer.

At least, Justin and Dean were feeling thankful; Harry was too distracted by the wonder that were Pepper Imps, cinnamon flavoured candies that had him breathing fire, to be feeling self-conscious.

They had met not twenty minutes ago when Harry had rescued Dean from a losing argument with a group of wizard-raised kids about whether football was just as interesting a sport as quidditch —which was a moot point either way since there was no way some of those stuck-up little princesses would accept that a muggle sport was just as good — and had drawn the offended boy away with a conversation about artistic mediums.

"Excuse me, sirs!" Harry had said, ignoring the offended looks on the faces of the girls that were also standing there. In Harry's way of thinking, if they didn't want to be mistaken for men, they should take care of those moustaches. He addressed Dean. "I couldn't help but notice the paint on your hands and I was wondering, is that acrylic or tempera?"

Justin, who had been sitting alone at a booth for fear of showing how ignorant he was of quidditch since he too was muggleborn, was pulled into the conversation when Harry asked for a second opinion on the effectiveness of water-colour on poster-board; Harry had claimed it took too long to dry to be preferable, and Dean countered that the way it looked in the end made up for the wait.

Justin had replied that he, unfortunately, wasn't as sophisticated as them and still created most of his art with crayons on notebook paper. All three of them had a good laugh at that and then patently ignored the puffed-up purebloods who were thrown off when Harry had cut into their argument. Continuing through with his non sequitur, he had expertly disabled the possibility of further disagreement by walking off with their chew-toy without even acknowledging their presence. If they weren't so put-out, they might have been impressed.

"This is so cool," mutter Justin as he watched his chocolate frog jump across the table. Dead cut it off before it could leap off the table and tossed it back. "I'm still half-convinced this is all just a dream or something."

Dean nodded empathetically. "I hear ya, mate. When that McGonagall woman showed up with my letter, me and my mum were sure she was a loony. Took her turning the coat-rack into a giant lizard to get us to start taking her seriously. Mind you, if we had from the beginning, we'd probably would've called the police on her for being crazy."

"You had someone hand delivered your letter?" Harry asked.

"Didn't you?" Justin asked. "I had assumed they did that for everyone."

"Mmmm, I'm thinking they only do that for muggleborns. I mean, I got someone to explain what was going on as well but that was mostly because my relatives refused to have anything to do with the first letter and wouldn't let me read it. Somehow, the school must've known I hadn't received their letter and they started pouring in from everywhere; not just the mail either, one of them ended up in an egg carton my aunt bought!" Harry exclaimed. The two other boys shared an incredulous laugh.

"Wait, wait," Justin cut in, leaning in, and giving Harry a slightly confused look. "So, your letter came in the mail? Like the post, right? You're from a non-magical family too, aren't you? Why didn't you get someone to explain it all to you from the beginning?"

"My mum and dad were both magical," Harry explained. "Living with my muggle aunt doesn't make me muggleborn as well. The school probably just assumed I'd already be completely aware of magic and didn't didn't give it any more thought. Tough luck, that; all that parchment sent to me must have been expensive. It must have been some automated system since they didn't seem to realize that flooding the house with letters wasn't working at all.

"My uncle was sure we were being watched or something, though, so he packed us all up and tried to make a run for it. Hagrid, he's the fellow that brought me my letter in the end, ended up having to chase us down to this hut on a rock out in the middle of the ocean that my uncle insisted was where no one would find us. It was ridiculous."

"Harry?" Justin asked hesitantly after recovering from his laughter. "Why was your family so freaked out by the letters? I can understand being confused and thinking it was a prank of some sort but the letter itself was hardly _scary."_

"Turns out they already knew I had magic," Harry shrugged. "And they wanted nothing to do with it. They thought that they could make my magic go away if they kept me away from magic school. Or something like that; Uncle Vernon wasn't exactly coherent when he was shouting at Hagrid that he wouldn't pay for me to be taught 'magic tricks'."

"How can you not like magic?" Dean asked, aghast, as if the notion was completely inconceivable. "That's like saying you hate ice cream or the world would be better with no colour!"

"Like you'd prefer the film with no sound," Justin agreed.

"I don't pretend to understand how their minds work," Harry shrugged. "But enough on that, gentlemen. Are either of you familiar with the card game, Cheat?"

* * *

Harry held himself completely still, wearing a harsh, stony expression. The herd of first years had been shepherded into the front of the Great Hall where the other students — the ones not entirely ignoring the proceedings by talking with their friends — could freely gawk at them. Harry felt as if he were on a stage in only his underpants only to later realize he didn't even have his underpants on either while a colosseum of spectators looked on, pointing and laughing. When such terror and stage-fright came upon him, it was his habit to clam up tighter than Uncle Vernon's fist around a wad of cash and pretend he was actually a statue made to look like a boy instead of the other way around.

McGonagall had only just finished with the 'D's and Harry was ready to climb the walls.

If he could see himself, Harry would have known that he looked as forbidding as a loosely muzzled attack dog with a taste for human flesh; some of the future Hufflepuffs around him were actually taking note to themselves to be wary of ticking him off in the future, whoever he was. As he screw up his face, Justin and Dean wondered what or who had put him in such a foul mood and if they should be ready to assist Harry in battle or restrain him from gnawing off the arms of his enemy. As it was, Harry couldn't see himself, and was wondering if anyone could tell he was ready to vomit all over the floor.

Sucking in a shuddering breath that made some wonder if he was about to take someone to task, Harry shoved a hand in his pocket to feel the money he had won off his new friends and started to make himself relax, when "Finch-Fletchley, Justin" was called.

Dean and Harry both gave Justin a thumbs up as their suddenly pale friend made for the stool. They had been worried earlier when they saw the hat sitting on the stool up front and thought that they would have to perform some magic with it somehow.

"Maybe pull a rabbit out of it?" Justin had suggested doubtfully. It didn't really seem the rabbit-producing type, though. The concerns were put to rest when the Abbot girl had merely sat on the stool and let the hat be put on her head.

As Justin settled himself on the stool, the remaining two suddenly realized they never agreed on which House they would all try for and they were concerned all over again.

After three breathless seconds, the hat cried, "HUFFLEPUFF!"

The eff kind of name was Hufflepuff?

While Harry clapped, he concluded that he'd simply have to do his best to maintain the friendship from separate Houses since there was no way he was joining a House that sounded like one of Aunt Petunia's pet names for Dudley. He met Dean's eye, saw his equally serious expression, and they nodded in silent understanding.

"Granger, Hermione."

There was that fast-talking twit of a girl again. Dean shifted next to Harry and frowned in remembered irritation. Earlier, on the train, she had marched through the dining carriage — looking like she was about to ring their doorbell and ask if they had a moment to talk about Jesus — and inquired after a toad of all things ("Neville's lost one," she'd said as if whoever that was should be internationally known). After noticing Justin's wand in his hand, she then launched into a spiel about magic and learning and the joys of homework that could have won her a place next to a Shakespearean monologue, complete with incomprehensible metaphors and unsubtle asides. As suddenly has she had come, she left, barely letting any of them get a word in edgewise beyond a few sounds of acknowledgement as she lectured and scolded them.

Harry had briefly wondered if he had somehow been sucked into some video game and she was actually a badly programmed NPC that didn't understand social cues or know how to shut up. Dean had said he didn't think there was a person he knew that he liked less.

Granger bolted from where she had been mumbling under her breath and damn near ran to the stool, eagerly jamming the hat on her head.

"Whatever House she's in, I hope I'm not in it," Dean muttered. Harry guiltily agreed. It wasn't that he particularly disliked her, she appeared to mean well, but her personality wasn't one that he appreciated. She'd have to curb that patronizing way of speaking if she was going to make many friends; a ginger-haired boy a few paces off looked equally peeved when she stumbled by him.

"GRYFFINDOR!" shouted the hat. The ginger groaned loudly.

"I suppose you're crossing Gryffindor off the list, now?" Harry grinned.

"I can live without bravery as long as that girl's at least five yards away from me," Dean retorted sourly. "You would think she'd be a shoe in for Ravenclaw they way she goes on about her books but I guess you have to be a certain kind of fearless to prattle on as she does when it's obvious no one wants to hear it."

They waited impatiently, both rather annoyed at having names so near the end of the alphabet, especially since they getting rather hungry. "Longbottom, Neville" ("Do you suppose he's the one that lost that toad?" Harry asked while Dean grinned at the ridiculous last name) spent the longest amount of time under the hat. It appeared he himself realized this and his relief was apparent when he ran off to the Gryffindor table with the hat still on his head. When the blushing boy handed the hat off to "MacDougal, Morag" the sorting started moving more quickly once again.

Harry barely spared a weak glare at Malfoy when he swaggered up. Dean looked unimpressed with the blonde boys haughty airs as well. The hat barely touched his head before, "SLYTHERIN!"

As Malfoy strutted away, and the Slytherin table applauded, Harry asked, "What does it say about a person that another person — or in this case, a hat — can so quickly shove them into a category — a stereotype really? I assume the hat takes a while sometimes because, of course, people are brave and smart as well as crafty and loyal. Why is he so smug that he wasn't considered to have any other good qualities?"

"Guess he's a one-trick pony," Dean shrugged.

There weren't too many of them left now. "Moon". . . "Nott". . . "Nautermeyer". . . "Parkinson". . . couple of "Patil".

Harry tried tuning out the noise of the hall, instead thinking about how much he could charge his classmates to do their homework. Surely there would be meat-heads around that would be delighted for a decent Sickles? Five pounds to the Galleon, so five pounds' seventeen Sickles, making ten Sickles about three pounds. That sounded like a reasonable price. Maybe he could increase and decrease prices depending on what grade the customer wanted?

Suddenly, while he was dreaming of charging spoiled brats who couldn't be bothered to do their own work straight out the bum and then later doubling up on prices for tutoring when they had to cram for exams, "Potter, Harry" jolted him out of his fantasies.

"Cross your fingers for Ravenclaw." Harry bumped shoulders with Dean before making his way toward the stool. Whispers abounded.

"Did she just say _Harry Potter?"_

"_The_ Harry Potter?"

No, Harry thought to himself, just _a _Harry Potter. This particular Harry Potter is just _The _Harry Potter's distant cousin from northern England. Instead of fighting evil, this Harry Potter spent his childhood being a country-bumpkin and riding cows. So sorry for the misunderstanding.

"Hmm," said a small voice in his ear. "Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either. Quick-witted, you are. There's talent, oh my goodness, yes — and a nice thirst to make something of yourself, now that's interesting. So where shall I put you?"

"If we can just choose were we go, what's the point of sorting us? Just because we want to belong to a certain group of people, _be_ a certain type of person, that doesn't mean we _are _that type of people. We should go where we're already best suited," Harry thought in response.

"But isn't the first step in achieving a goal acknowledging the goal, and actively working toward it?" the Sorting Hat quipped pleasantly.

"That's assuming that being in a certain House _should _be a goal," Harry countered. "After reading _Hogwarts: A History, _I learned that the Houses were formed so students could be among like-minded individuals that work toward similar goals and learn under teachers that teach in a way that they learn best. Shouldn't a person with a Gryffindor personality go to Gryffindor, where they'll be with people that understand them best, so they can learn more efficiently, instead of going to Hufflepuff just because they want to be known as a hard-worker? There's no stopping them from being known as a hard-worker through deeds instead of pre-conceived notions."

"Well reasoned, young man," the Sorting Hat chuckled. "I hope to see you flourish in RAVENCLAW!"


End file.
